Page 68 of A Lady’s Guide to Mystery and Mischief

Grey wondered if the coachman might run him over with the carriage if he asked politely.

Oliver let out something between a cough and a chuckle. “Mr. Montgomery, as it happens.”

“Aunt Dalia’s solicitor,” Farah squeaked, having turned a bright shade of red.

“I see,” Dameer said, his gaze never leaving Grey’s. “And why did Aunt Dalia send her solicitor here? Does she intend to sue us for not visiting often enough?”

“Not at all.” Farah busied herself by smoothing the sheets around her brother. “She didn’t want me to travel alone.”

In a tone that could only be described as flat, Dameer said, “So she sent her solicitor.”

To be entirely fair, it was ridiculous. Grey knew it was. But he was the one who had insisted on coming and was now learning what the phrase you reap what you sow truly meant.

He also knew his silence was strange, but he hadn’t the slightest clue how to contribute. He’d never been around a family like this—a family so visibly comfortable with one another. Though he and Leila shared a close, easy relationship, he had, until the day his grandfather had died, grown up in a tense home. And the one cousin he did have was Francis.

Farah changed the subject. “Where is everyone?”

“They went to the apothecary,” Kalila answered. She regarded Grey with something like empathy. “Would you like a tour of the grounds, Mr. Montgomery?”

“Do you mean to leave me here alone?” Dameer demanded.

“You are perfectly capable of following us on crutches,” Kalila said, though not unkindly.

“Or I could carry you,” Oliver offered, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

Dameer shot him a long-suffering look. “The crutches, if you please.”

“We should walk to the prayer house!” Farah crowed, hopping off the bed. “I can guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it.”

He was sure she was correct. Very little here was like anything he’d ever seen. She was like nothing he’d ever seen.

Once Dameer had been sufficiently fussed over and helped down the stairs, they made their way out of the house. Farah led the way, demanding to hear stories from the family holiday to Wales. Kalila matched her strides to Grey’s, her study of him obvious.

“Does Farah know you’re in love with her?”

Grey almost tripped over himself. “I beg your pardon?”

“Does Farah know you’re in love with her?” Kalila repeated.

“I—I am—I have no idea what makes you think I’m in—”

“I have a sharp eye for detail, Mr. Montgomery,” Kalila said with complete neutrality. “And stammering does not make for a convincing denial.”

Of all people to get stuck with, Grey had to end up with the brilliant cousin.

“I was merely caught off guard,” he croaked.

Kalila let out a contemplative hum. “Does she still have her heart set on Mr. Beaumont?”

“Miss Rafiq and I do not—”

Kalila ignored his attempt to interject. “Not that any of us have seen or heard from the man since she announced their alleged understanding two years ago.”

Of course they hadn’t. Francis had been too preoccupied with getting into trouble, racking up debt, and enjoying a life of general debauchery—all the while secure in his knowledge that he had a wife and inheritance waiting for him.

The thought was, as always, enough to inspire violence.

Grey tried again. “Miss Rafiq does not discuss such matters with me.”